I sat in my office as the alarm clock, adorned in a platinum chrome finish.
It ticked and ticked.
Sometime before midnight, the rain finally subsided, bringing an end to its rhythmic pattern against the window. I lifted his gaze from the desk, taken aback by the cessation of droplets.
Six days had elapsed since I expelled Inna from my quarters, yet my body still retained the memory of her icy demeanor when he made that request. The reason behind my intense anger towards her.
Why?
I don't know.
I ignored her completely these past few days while I dreamt of her at night. After throwing her out that day, he focused on himself and his health. I even stopped going to his gym, just to not meet his eyes with hers. I was aware that she occupied herself in the gym or the art room.
I couldn't help but feel intrigued by her activities in that personal space of hers that I made for her, I just want to know what captivates her to paint.
Yet, I couldn't deny that my thoughts verged on possessive jealousy when it came to her interaction with the brushes, the way she wielded them against the canvas with an exhilarating grace.
I was jealous of the damn brushes.
Yes, I am.
Because she loved them more than she did for me. Maybe, she doesn't even love me. But she feels for them more than for me.
She touches them and worships them.
But not me.
Those very fingers had aided him in eliminating their initial foe, and they had also been stained with blood on the day of the ball when she took the life of Camel.
Camel, the same bastard who wanted her head on a silver plate to satisfy his desire, was right in killing him. I was sure, that if she didn't get to do it, he would be glad to complete it.
I remembered the way Camel was looking at her that night, it was like she was a fantasy that he should touch to feel its reality. He wanted her under him.
And being in bed these days, made me a little less productive, but I was glad that feel better now Olga was the one who told me about Camel and Inna after she watched the CCTV of the kill, the same one where Inna had killed Camel in a fucking bathroom.
Unable to suppress his imagination, I found myself picturing the scene before me—did Red ruthlessly slay Camel in a cold-blooded manner, or was it the other way around?
The mention of blood triggered a disturbing mental image in my mind: Inna's hands were drenched in crimson as if she was using blood as a medium for her art.
Fuck, I was messed up.
The thought startled me, causing me to utter an expletive under my breath. Suddenly, a bizarre desire to coat my house with Camel's blood surged within me, even though I had no affinity for the arts.
I forcefully scraped my chair against the floor, creating a jarring sound, as I stood up and made my way to the window closest to my desk.
With a click, the damp hinges emitted a soft whine, and I peered out at the narrow snow of the garden, illuminated by the radiant glow of the sun.
Resting my hands firmly on the windowsill, I leaned forward, stretching my back and upper shoulders, inhaling the mingling scents left by the rain.
Pushing myself away from the window, I briskly walked to the opposite side of the room, determined to banish thoughts of her from my mind.
